


The Corner of Eighth and Mercer Street

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Everyone is Queer, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, it's pretty gay, non-binary Lafayette, they fall in love in a coffee shop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7624666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Laurens is a liberal with a conservative father, no friends, and a job he despises.<br/>Alexander Hamilton is a bastard orphan with too little time, a French roommate, and a tendency to be eternally single.<br/>They both have secrets.<br/>And they both ended up at the same place, at the same time, for two very different reasons.<br/>Maybe that's what they call fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Alexander Hamilton was angry.

Of course, he was always angry, but now he was even angrier.

It was raining.

Still, his dickhead of a supervisor, Charles Lee, had sent him out to get coffee. Coffee! What was he, an intern?

 _Charles Lee. Little fucker looks like Severus Snape. Could probably fry an egg in his greasy-ass hair,_ Alex grumbled, striding down the street. The rain had soaked through his hood, and he could feel freezing water running down his neck.

He had decided to make this the longest coffee run ever, to prance around the city while Charles Lee wallowed in the pool of hair grease that he swam in 24/7. And so, he called Lafayette.

“Where’s that coffeeshop you work at again?” He asked casually, waiting idly under the awning of a CVS.

Lafayette laughed. “ _Mon ami_ , to what do I owe this visit?”

“Can I not visit my favorite French person at work?”

“We live together, Alexander. Also, you said you hated Teamocracy.”

“That’s only because I saw Thomas Jefferson in there once,” he said defensively, shuffling his feet as people brushed past him.

He heard a muffled scream on the other end. “That was me, Alexander. With my hair down.”  
“However you’d like to put it… Where’s this elusive coffeeshop, Laf? I’m gonna get sick in this rain, and you’ll have to deal with me for the whole day spewing my intestines all over the apartment. It'll look and smell like that one time Herc got drunk and decided to make clam chowder with melted vanilla ice cream and fish sticks, so _please_ tell me,” he whined.

“I did not need that visual, Alexander.”

Letting out a frustrated “hmph”, Alex went on. “I’ll continue,” he lied. His stomach was turning as he thought of the vile stench that had plagued the apartment for two weeks after Hercules Mulligan decided to be the next Gordon Ramsay.

“Alexander, you make a convincing case.”

A smile broke out on Alex’s face as he strode confidently out from under the awning. He clutched the phone close to his cheek, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“It is at the corner of Eighth and Mercer Street.”

* * *

 John Laurens was fucked.

Truly, incredibly fucked.

He was freezing. Rain lashed mercilessly at his freckled skin. His t-shirt was sticking to his body, and his shoes were filled with water. It had been approximately 2 minutes since he’d been pushed out of the taxi by an angry man who refused to be paid in expired coupons.

John sighed, the noise getting lost in the sounds of the city.

Fifteen minutes ago, he had found George King (the third) tangled, half naked, in his bed with some guy named Samuel Seabury. He’d felt no remorse at ending the relationship. It had been two weeks since they’d started _officially_ dating, and there really wasn’t any substance to it anyway. Sure, there had been moments that he’d appreciated, small gestures that made his heart skip a beat. But John was a romantic, and he could find those things in anyone.

Right?

Plus, his father would probably kill

Forgetting his worries, he’d prepared to make a dramatic exit. Perhaps he’d done it with too much flourish, because his wallet had fallen out of his pocket as he’d slammed George’s apartment door.

So he’d hailed a taxi and climbed in, pouting out the window until he realized that the only things he had with him were coupons and a warm packet of ketchup. The taxi driver had gruffly demanded him to “get the fuck out or I’ll call the police” and dropped him off at some nondescript street corner, with no money and pneumonia (probably). He looked up, rainwater streaming down his face.

He’d been left at the corner of Eighth and Mercer Street.

* * *

Alex spotted Teamocracy immediately. It was a small, cozy store next to a tacky souvenir shop. He hurried inside, pulling his hoodie around his shoulders.

It was crowded, smelling strongly of coffee beans and cinnamon. “Alexander!” A familiar French voice rang over the clamor. Not paying attention to his surroundings, Alex stopped in the middle of the shop, causing a man, soaking wet, wearing just a t-shirt, to slam into him.

“Oh shit, man, I’m sorry,” he said, turning around. “It’s…”

He fell silent.

Alexander Hamilton, the man who never ran out things to say, had been rendered speechless by a stranger. Of course, it wasn’t like his words disappeared at the sight of someone unfamiliar, it was just this stranger in particular.

He was beautiful.

It wasn’t a love-at-first-sight kind of thing. It was far from that, actually. He simply acknowledged that the person in front of him was attractive and moved on.

If only he had done that a bit more gracefully.

Alexander Hamilton turned red, was quiet for about three minutes, started stammering, and began to talk about how much he loved the linoleum floors of the coffeehouse.

“Alexander, _mon ami_ , the floors are carpeted,” Lafayette whispered loudly in his ear.

This beautiful stranger looked at him with his clear hazel eyes, smiling. “It’s fine,” he said in a bright, cheerful voice. “You stuck out in the rain, too?” His dark curls fell down below his ears, and even when they were dripping with rainwater, looked glossy and soft.

A small sigh escaped Alex’s lips.

Lafayette whipped out their dark blue coat, seemingly out of nowhere, and draped it around the broad shoulders of this stranger. “Well, now, you won’t get sick, _beau_ ,” they said, a mischievous grin on their face. “You both look like you could use a hot chocolate. Why don’t you sit down over there, and I will get those over to you?”

Without waiting for a response, Lafayette led the two over to a small round table where they took seats across from one another.

Not being able to stand staying silent for more than a minute, Alex smiled, sticking out a hand. “Alexander Hamilton. My name is Alexander Hamilton,” he said, praying to whatever higher powers there were that this stranger would take it.

“I’m John Laurens,” he replied. “I’d shake your hand, except my hand would feel like drugstore-quality sushi, so...” His hand was slick with rainwater, shining brightly under the lights of the shop. “So tell me, Alexander Hamilton, how did you end up in a coffee shop with a pun as its name in the middle of such a storm?”

Alex stayed silent, mulling over the way John had said his name. He said everything with such a gentle tone, and his voice was so melodic-- he could listen to John talk about anything for hours.

_Your voice is great and based on that fact I think you’d give great blowjobs._

_Too forward?_

“Well, _commencer à flirter et tomber en amour, mes amis_ ,” Lafayette said, setting two steaming cups onto the table.

Alex glanced at John, who was staring at him curiously.

_Please don’t speak French. Please don’t speak French. Please don’t spea-_

“The hot chocolate is free, _mon cher_ ,” they continued, grinning widely.

Alex smiled at his friend, who was covered in flour. “Thanks, Laf.”

“Oh, not for you, Alexander. These drinks come out of my paycheck,” they said, wiping their hands on their black apron. “Have fun, now. Be safe!” They disappeared behind the counter, smiling to themself.

Laughing awkwardly, Alex took a small sip of the hot chocolate. “That was my roommate. Lafayette. I’m here for them and to escape my shitstorm of a supervisor. His name’s Charles Lee, and he doesn’t know when to shut up, and he sent me on a _coffee run._ A coffee run! I’m not a fucking intern,” he said, pouting.

John smiled. “At least you’re being _paid_ to be here,” he pointed out, running a hand through his wet hair.

Wiping at the hot chocolate mustache that was beginning to form above his lip, Alex studied the way his freckles were splashed across his warm mocha skin. “Just wondering,” he said cautiously, heart pounding. “Do you speak French?”

John raised an eyebrow curiously. “No,” he replied slowly. “Did Lafayette say anything about me?”

Suddenly, a heat that was decidedly not from the hot chocolate flooded Alex. “N- no! That sounds really suspicious, like _really_ suspicious, but it’s not, I promise. But Laf has a different French person that they shift into periodically. It’s... overly sexual and obsessed with baguettes. I think it’s a reflex. It’s like a wine-drunk persona, which makes sense, I guess. You know, the French and their wine.” He laughed nervously, carefully watching John’s reaction to his rambling.

To his surprise, John laughed. _Laughed!_ And it should have been illegal. It basically emitted sunlight. It was warm and bright and sweet and made him melt away. It made him feel like he was under a spotlight, as if he was special.

Alex’s mouth curved into a genuine, comfortable smile as John recounted the events that had led him to Teamocracy. They sat together, laughing and talking and complaining and trading stories, as rain fell in torrents around them.

They didn’t fall in love over a cup of coffee at some nameless sun-filled café, no.

They became the best of friends on the corner of Eighth and Mercer Street.

But it was close enough.

It was close enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translations (according to the internet):  
> mon ami / my friend  
> beau / handsome  
> commencer à flirter et tomber en amour, mes amis / start flirting and fall in love, my friends  
> mon cher / my dear


	2. Chapter 2

“No, I’m serious. He wears fucking _purple velvet suits_. He spilled coffee on his jacket this one morning, and he cried. Did you know that he likes Sweet n’ Low? Well, I kind of get it. He’s not that sweet, but he’s pretty low. I guess he is pretty fake, too, so it works.

“But either way, there was that one time I was kinda bored, so I tried to see how much shit I could put in Jefferson’s hair before he noticed. You know, pencils and stuff. Then I drew a surprisingly realistic dick on a powder pink post-it, because it matched the suit he was wearing that day, and stuck that in his hair. He got sent down to HR for that. Then _I_ got sent down to HR because my art skills are never appreciated by Washington, but it was totally worth it.” Alexander took an exaggerated breath and downed the rest of his hot chocolate. It had turned into lukewarm chocolate milk at that point, but he really didn’t care.

John giggled.

Alex was pretty sure that he had never heard a more appealing giggle.

“Are you telling me that this asshat Jefferson walked around in a pastel pink suit and a penis drawn on a matching post-it in his hair, and he didn’t notice?” John continued, a smirk on his lips.

Scoffing, Alexander slammed his cup back onto the table. “Jefferson fails to notice a lot. Such as global warming and bisexuality.”

John’s hazel eyes flickered down to his phone as it buzzed. He looked up almost nervously. Alex watched as he skittishly tapped out a message. “I… I gotta go. It’s been fun talking to you, Alexander Hamilton.” He pulled a black pen out of his pocket and scrawled a number onto a napkin. “Let’s talk again.”

He almost sprinted out of the coffee shop, leaving Lafayette’s blue jacket on the chair.

Alex took a look at the napkin John had slid across the table.

“Are you fucking _kidding me_?” He screeched, holding the napkin in his hand. The number was fairly legible until it came to the last three digits. There was something that looked vaguely like a 2, but it could have been a 3 or a 9, and then the next two were simply scribbles.

A bunch of customers looked towards him, either concern or annoyance in their eyes. He was now cursing uncontrollably, crushing his empty cup in one hand and clenching a fist with the other. Cooled hot chocolate dripped down his hand. “Finally meet someone interesting on one of Lee’s goddamn errands, and now I get _this_? And he was _cute_ too?”

“Alexander, _mon petit lion_ , I am going to have to ask you to leave,” Lafayette said, a small smile on their face. “My platonic love for you is strong, but you’re creating a disturbance, and Burr is, how you say, riding my ass about it.”

Alex finally became aware of the fact that the only noise in the shop now was the whirring of the radiator. He swiped the napkin off the table and strode briskly out of the room, head held high.

It wasn’t until he was multiple blocks away from Teamocracy that he realized he had forgotten to get coffee.

And so, he stumbled into a random coffeehouse, paid an extremely high price for mediocre coffee, and tried to get to the office without falling in the middle of the street.

“Alexander.” The stern voice could only belong to one person.

 _Shit_.

“Sir,” he said. “Coffee?”

“Tell me,” Washington said, lips pursed. “In what world does it take a person 5 hours to cross the street and get coffee for the office?”

Alex glared at Charles, who was sitting at his desk, smiling smugly.

He got up and plucked a cup of coffee from Alex’s tray, and then proceeded to take the most pretentious sip of coffee that he had ever had the misfortune to witness.

“Sir, I would say this one,” he said, trying to keep a straight face under Washington’s stare of disapproval.

He sighed, exasperated. “Hamilton. Go home for the day. And when you come back tomorrow, I hope you’ll be a bit more professional.” Washington walked away.

Jefferson, sporting his signature purple suit, let out a cross between a cough and a laugh as he walked by, holding a packet of Sweet n’ Low.

Fuming, Alex stormed out of the building, clutching the napkin in his pocket.

When he got home, he sat at his desk, trying to work on a presentation about the current economic state of whatever company they were discussing that week. The blank PowerPoint sat in front of him mockingly.

He had been hovering absentmindedly in the apartment for around an hour when Lafayette burst in, their eyes bright with excitement. “ _Mon ami_ , I…” Their voice trailed off as they saw Alex strewn limply over his chair, his hair hanging in his eyes. “What is bothering you?”

With a melodramatic flourish, Alex threw the napkin onto the desk, a pout on his face. “Laf, there are three numbers missing and Washington got mad because of my coffee run and I’ve been doing nothing and you need to help me.”

Lafayette picked up the napkin, squinting at the messy writing. “I’m going to call Hercules,” they declared. “Get the beer. It is going to be a long night.”

In ten minutes, they were all gathered in the cramped living room.

“There are a thousand possible numbers, right?” Hercules asked, hand on his chin. “Why don’t we call all of them?”

Alex almost choked on his drink. “Are you--”

“Well, if you want to be choking on something other than that beer, Alexander, we should get started,” Hercules replied, copying down the first seven digits of the phone number onto a sheet of paper. “I’ll take 000 to 333. Laf, you take 334 to 667. Alex, you get 668 to 999. What’s this mystery man’s name again?”

Alex took a deep breath. “His name’s John. John Laurens. He has a great smile and really nice eyes and freckles and he has puffy hair that you could probably fall asleep in…”

“He does know we can’t see this Laurens guy, right?” Hercules whispered loudly to Lafayette, who was busy singing various Beyonce songs in French.

“Let’s get started!” Alex announced, picking up his cellphone.

On his journey to finding John Laurens, Alex encountered a man who sold canned tomatoes for a living, a 13-year-old who explained, in great detail, her first time she had gone a _whole day_ without her favorite latte, which she would _literally die_ without, and a pretentious woman who spoke like she had a hard-boiled egg in her mouth.

It was 12:36 a.m. when Alex finally reached 904. “Hello?” Someone said tiredly. “It’s kinda late, can this wait?”

Alex almost squealed, his fingers tapping the table excitedly. “Is this John Laurens?”

“Yeah… who are you, exactly? Look, if you’re with my father, you can fuck off. I can’t deal with this today.” His warm voice had disappeared, replaced by ice and bitterness.

Alex flinched at his cold tone, wincing a little. “Sorry… no… it’s Alexander… from that coffee shop earlier? John, are you okay?”

He heard a sigh on the other end of the line. “Hey. It’s not really the best time. I’m just…” He didn’t offer anything more. “It’s nice hearing from you. I’m in the middle of something right now, so can we talk later? Family issues.”

The energetic, passionate man from the coffeehouse was gone. John sounded run down, exhausted, almost defeated. Alex was quiet for a couple seconds. “Okay,” he finally said. “I… I’ll talk to you later then?”

“Yeah.”

John hung up.

Alex put his phone down.

Lafayette looked at him expectantly, raising an eyebrow. “You found your dear Laurens, _mon ami_?” They asked.

He opened his mouth, trying to find an answer.

“I don’t know.”


	3. Chapter 3

Alexander Hamilton stumbled into the office with a shoddily-done presentation, a cup of gas station coffee, and unkempt hair.

“Hamilton.” Washington stood in front of him, lips pressed into a thin line. “Can I see the presentation you were supposed to have done?”

Alex took a long sip of his coffee. The bitterness passed smoothly through his mouth, but of course, it was gas station coffee, and it left an acrid taste on his tongue. “O- of course, sir,” he mumbled.

Without another word, he opened the presentation on his computer, praying that he deleted the obscene comments he had written about Jefferson last night.

Washington had almost gotten through the entire PowerPoint, correcting grammar along the way. He was shaking his head, muttering to himself, as he clicked through the slides.

“I hope he drowns in his own pubic hair,” he said, clearing his throat. “His dick is as small as his ego is big. His jackets probably have--” Washington almost jumped away from the screen, a look of pure disgust on his face. “I can only imagine that you wrote this about Jefferson, am I correct?”

Alex tried not to smile. “Yes, sir,” he replied.

Washington nodded slowly. “All right, Hamilton. I suggest you delete that… interesting slide. You have the meeting with the one of the reps from Freede today, so you need that to be as good as possible.”

“Ah… yes, that meeting,” Alex said, a terse smile on his face. “That meeting that I remembered because Freede is very important to our current status and I am definitely prepared for this meeting. Sir.”

Washington sighed. “Okay, Hamilton. You have to convince this representative that they should partner with us to get for us, an increased share value, and for them, a boost in exposure.” He ran his hands through his (non-existent) hair. “At 10:30. But of course, you knew that. Because you remembered this meeting, correct?”

“Yep,” Alex replied. “Y- you betcha, sir.” He took a quick glance at the clock. 9:45. He had 45 minutes to get himself as ready as possible for this meeting, and to not embarrass himself in front of a well-dressed old man in a pinstriped suit.

Looking down at his wrinkled shirt, he smoothed it out as best as he possibly could and walked out of the office, practicing a stride that looked as professional as he could manage. “So obsessed with John that you forgot this meeting,” he muttered to himself, fiddling with the cuff of his shirt.

He sat down, turning on his computer and making as many edits as he could to his mess of a presentation. The information was unorganized, his points incoherent and nonsensical. With his fingers flying over the keyboard, he did the best he could to sort his thoughts into logical reasoning.

At 10: 25, he started organizing his things, rearranging staplers and trying to gather his messy stack of papers. He ran his fingers through his unwashed hair, trying to turn his unruly locks into something that was presentable at best.

A man walked into his office at precisely 10:30. His silver hair was slicked back, glinting brightly in the harsh white light of the building. He was wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, and a gold watch shone on his wrist.

His face was all angles and deep crevices. A distasteful frown seemed permanently etched onto his skin. “Hello. Are you Alexander Hamilton?” He asked in a gruff tone, brows furrowed.

“Yessir,” Alex replied, a little taken aback by the intimidating man standing in front of him. “Please. Have a seat. Alexander Hamilton.” He outstretched a hand. The man gave it a firm shake. His hands were calloused and cold. The frigid metal of a gold ring pressed against Alex's palm, and he repressed the urge to shiver.

“Henry Laurens. Pleasure.”

_Laurens…?_

“Do you know John Laurens?” He suddenly blurted out, regretting his words as soon as he said them.

Laurens looked at him strangely. “He’s my son. Shall we continue with the meeting, Mr. Hamilton?”

He shook off his shock at the coincidence and began to speak.

Alex went over his presentation methodically, talking monotonously. Laurens made nondescript comments here and there, and the meeting seemed to be going fine until Alex brought up the issue of the company’s partnership policy.

“Well,” he said. “We only partner with companies that…” He then proceeded to read off of the sheet of paper in front of him, voice flat but polite. Forgettable.

Laurens stopped him, his face grim. “Sorry, could you read that last one again?”

“Of course. Revolutionize only pairs with companies with a certified non-discriminatory statement-- meaning that Freede must be open to all races, genders and sexualities.” Alex’s heart thudded. “Is that going to be a problem, Mr. Laurens?”

“I don’t think this partnership is going to work out,” Laurens said abruptly, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Why not?” Alex asked tensely, fists clenching under the table.

“I am a firm believer in preserving the sanctity of marriage, Mr. Hamilton,” he replied coldly, his facial expression seeming like it was set in stone. “As is our company.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “The sanctity of marriage? With all due respect, but I fail to see how a man and a woman can get married within 3 hours of meeting each other while drunk in Vegas not breach the ‘sanctity of marriage’ while two men that have been in a committed relationship for years do?” He answered, his tone just as frosty. He was three seconds away from totally losing it. Still, he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering to the attractive freckled man from the coffee shop.

 _There’s no chance John’s gonna be into guys then, is he?_ Alex thought. _With this guy as a father?_

“Also, I must remain adamant that there are only two genders,” Laurens added, his hands clasped together. His posture was rigid and about as unmoving as his beliefs.

Alex leaned forward, trying to contain his rage. “If by gender you mean sex, I understand, but those are two completely different terms. Humor me, Mr. Laurens, do you think that whites are superior as well?”

Laurens stayed silent, eyes flitting around the room. “Of course not. But I do stress that _all_ lives do matter.”

Taking a deep breath, Alex shut off his computer. “It’s been a quite interesting discussion, Mr. Laurens. I stand by what I said earlier. This partnership is not going to work up if you cannot comply to our policies. So you can shove your fancy words up your--"

Without another word, Henry Laurens strode out of the office with his back straight and his walk as stiff as it was when he came in. Alex took a deep breath.

“Nice to be free of the _bigoted stench_ ,” he spat, letting his anger uncoil. “Henry Laurens. Suck my dick.” He pursed his lips mockingly. “‘The sanctity of marriage’, my ass.”

His phone rang. Alex picked up, holding the gray receiver in place with his shoulder. “Alexander Hamilton. Revolutionize,” he said blandly.

“Hamilton. How did the meeting go?” Washington asked.

“Freede didn’t comply with our non-discriminatory policy,” Alexander said, choosing not to tell his boss the whole of the story. “Sir.”

He heard a disappointed sigh. “Do not tell me you got into an argument with the rep about his beliefs.”

Alex could feel blood rush from his face. “All right, sir, I won’t tell you.”

“Hamilton!”

* * *

 

Alex got home from work, tired as always. He watched as a leaf was blown into the window, over and over again, a vibrant red against the dreary gray sky.

 _Call me later_ , John had said. Did now constitute as later?

Alex hoped so.

Grinning a little, he picked up his phone and called John.

“John?” He said, his hair dripping wet with water from his shower.

“Alex!” John replied, his voice bright and cheerful.

“Guess who I met at work today?” Alex asked. “Your dad. No offense, but he’s kind of an asshole.”

He heard John suck in a breath. “Are you the one he was complaining about when he got back to the office?”

“Probably.”

Alex paused.

“Do you agree with him?” He asked nervously.

John laughed incredulously “Of course not. I, you know, work with him, now. Family business. Homophobic family business, yeah. But… what can you do?”

The wind kept hammering at the red leaf, pressing it up against the glass.

Alex could think of a million things that John could do instead of working with his shitstorm of a father.

Most of which involved him.

But for once, he opted to watch.

He watched as a gust of wind tore the leaf away from the window. It swirled and leapt and fell and rose until it was nothing more than a red speck in the sky.

 _It’s just a leaf, Hamilton_ , he told himself.

_Just a leaf._


	4. Chapter 4

It was so, so loud.

The mix of voices turned into one noise, a constant pounding in his ears punctuated by the occasional guitar riff.

Why had he let Herc persuade him into coming here? He was slouched on a metal folding chair in the house of Maria Reynolds, clutching an untouched cup of cheap alcohol.

It was so hot. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, and his shirt was basically plastered to his chest. Hercules and Lafayette had disappeared into the sea of people, whooping and spilling their drinks with every step.

“Alex!” Angelica approached him. Her cheeks were flushed, almost glowing under the soft light. “Have you been drinking tonight?”

He shook his head, looking at her curiously. “Why?”

Angelica looked at him, a strange, mischievous glint in her dark eyes. “Great! I think there are only 5 people that’re sober here. But anyway, Thomas is being a homophobic dipshit again,” she said, smiling almost slyly. “I tried to argue with him, and he just… tried to hit on me. I think? He was sitting there, all pretentious in his fluorescent suit. You know what he said? ‘Come sit on my lap, and we’ll talk about the first thing that comes up.’ But you know, he was drunk, and he was slurring half of what he said, and even when he’s sober, Jefferson has the sexual appeal of a crusty dumpster.”

Alex raised an eyebrow, holding in a laugh. “What did you say back?”

She snorted, running a hand through her hair. “I just walked away. You’re missing the point, Ham. We’re going to lose all our brain cells listening to him. Please?”

Without hesitating, Alex picked up his cup and downed all the alcohol inside it, ignoring the burning that followed. “I can’t argue with that little fucker without being a little drunk,” he proclaimed, peeling himself from the chair. “Where is he? Lead the way.”

He scooped another drink off the table, easily finishing that as well. The second one was easier to bear, but his mouth still carried a sour aftertaste.

_ Fuck it. _

Three drinks later, Alex deemed himself ready to face the cane-carrying, shithole of a person named Thomas Jefferson.

With a stomach filled with rage and unidentifiable alcohol, Alex followed the eldest Schuyler sister to the one and only man willing to wear a bright purple suede vest (and matching shoes) in public.

Thomas Jefferson was draped over a chair, his legs hanging freely over its arms. “Alexander,” he said, his eyes unfocused. He had an infuriating smirk on his face, like he knew a secret no one else did. “We were just talking about you!”

“Were you?” Alex asked sweetly, feigning curiosity. “You know, Jefferson, if you love me that much, you just have to say so.”

Jefferson let out a loud burp in response. “I don’t love you, Hamilton. I have my dearest, Angelica to love instead.” He raised a suggestive eyebrow, his smirk widening. “But, yes, you,” he continued. “You always say that you’re gonna do something”, he hiccupped, “actually helpful, but all you did was put in that stupid non-discriminatory policy. What’s the point? We live in a capitalist society, Hamilton. If it pays the bills, why does it matter what they believe in?”

Alex took a deep breath. The alcohol had made him a little dizzy, of course. He was a certified lightweight, anyway.

His anger kept building up as it rose from his stomach, and by the time he released it, it had snowballed into full-on outrage. “Look, Thomas, that was a real nice declaration, but you’re a fucking idiot. In  _ what _ fucking world is it okay for us to promote discrimination by supporting companies that oppress the minorities in their workers? I don’t know  _ where _ you’ve been for the past decade, but you need to pull your head out of your fucking ass!” He shouted, hands gesturing wildly.

Thomas looked like he was about to reply, but instead he opted to stagger to his feet, a finger pointed in Alex’s general vicinity. “Excuse me for being practical!” He replied at the same volume.

The stench of sweat and vodka rolled off of him, almost making Alex recoil, as he continued his tirade.

He ended his statement by leaning over and vomiting onto Alex’s shoes.

“Oh my god,” Angelica said, almost incredulously, hand over her mouth.

Thomas fell back in his chair, trying to act haughty. “I saved that just for you, Hamilton,” he stated, looking very happy with himself.

“Jefferson, when I’m done with you, I will make sure that your cum-stained jacket is sh--” Alex lunged for him, but Angelica tried to hold him back, heels digging into the floor. Jefferson let out a loud, mocking laugh as he struggled against Angelica’s grip.

“Alex, calm down,” she murmured. “Please.” As soon as he relaxed, Angelica let go, stumbling a little bit. “I’m gonna go see if Maria has any shoes you can borrow. I think I know someone who can give you a ride home. He’s got some important work tomorrow. Probably not drinking.”

She paused. “I probably shouldn’t leave you alone with him, should I?” She took Alex by the wrist and led him to Maria Reynolds, who gave him a pair of sparkly ballet flats.

“Good thing we’re the same size,” she declared as Alex stuffed his (decidedly small) feet into the shoes.

Carrying his vomit-soaked sneakers, Angelica dragged him across the house until they came across two people arguing passionately, almost screaming at each other. “John!” She said, a smile on her face, tapping one of them on the shoulder.

They turned around, and familiar hazel eyes met his, making Alex’s heart jump a little. “John?”

“Hey, Laurens, so he’s kinda tipsy and barf-covered, so if you could bring him home I’d love you forever.”

He shot a cold glare at the person he’d been debating with, then pulled himself out of his chair. “You already love me, Angelica,” he said, grinning. “But of course.”

Alex followed John as he walked out to his car, humming a cheerful tune. His head was swimming, and his thoughts were wandering, but he didn’t miss it.

The first crack of thunder.

To someone else, it could have been anything.

But Alex knew.

The dark gray clouds covering the moon. The humid air.

Then, the thunder.

Even just hearing it, he flinched, brought back to Nevis and the sound of wood splintering under torrents and torrents of rain that just didn’t stop and the anguished screams of mothers who had lost their children and the feeling of shivering in the cold basement for days on end, hoping that maybe, the hurricane would take him too.

He slowly, methodically buckled his seatbelt. His hands shook a little bit.

“Nice shoes,” John joked, nodding towards his sequined flats.

Alex, who had been nervously staring at the sky, jumped. “What?” He said, unable to keep the paranoia out of his voice. He fidgeted nervously in the seat, trying not to look up.

A little laugh bubbled up in John’s throat. “I was just complimenting your shoes,” he said, smiling.

“Yeah… I think the color really suits me,” Alex replied, trying very, very hard to be graceful while drunkenly modelling Maria’s flats. His voice trembled slightly as his eyes flitted up to the sky.

John talked easily on the drive to Alex’s apartment, while he just babbled, intoxicated. It was relaxing, actually, and he almost forgot about the storm that was (quite literally) brewing ahead.

“Thanks for the ride, John,” he said, head pounding from all the alcohol. “I got it from here.” As he tried to pull himself from the car, he stumbled and almost launched himself into traffic.

John glanced at him, concerned. “As much as I trust you, Hamilton, I insist on walking you up to your apartment to make sure you don’t die in the elevator.”

Alex smiled. “Thanks,” he said, clutching John’s forearm.

They made their way up to the apartment, where Alex collapsed onto his bed. He had almost fallen asleep when it came again.

Thunder.

He sat straight up, chills running up his body.

“Alex,” John said gently. “Are you okay?”

“No, I--”

_ There’d been a woman during the first few days of the storm. She was kind, but the storm was not. Her house was one of the first destroyed. _

_ Alex had watched as she was swept away, as the ocean took her cleanly, silently, leaving nothing behind. He’d heard her  _ scream  _ as the waves grabbed her and pulled her below the surface. He only saw her again in his nightmares. _

It took him a while to realize that there were hot tears falling down his face. He was shaking, his knees pulled to his chest.

“Alex… are you…” John spoke softly, his voice smooth and hushed.

“Can you…” Alex trailed off, trying to bite back a sob. He flinched as another crack of thunder tore through his ears. His head hurt, and he was rigid, unmoving. 

The bed dipped down as John perched on the edge of it. “Can I touch you?” He asked quietly. Alex nodded slightly, head hanging. Tears still fell freely down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “You have work tomorrow, don’t you? You should go, I’m so sorry. Thanks for the ride, John, I--”

He felt a warm arm around his shoulder. “Alex, I don’t care about work. Please, let me stay with you,” John murmured. “It’s okay. I just need to make sure you’re okay.”

A choked sob escaped Alex’s lips. “Thanks,” he managed to say, pulling the blanket around his quivering shoulders. He paused. “Can you stay?” He asked quietly. He felt the covers shift a bit as John settled in next to him.

“Of course.”

The last thing Alex felt before he drifted off to sleep was soft lips against his forehead.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **please skip this chapter if you're not okay with child abuse.  
> it's not gory, but please make sure you're okay with reading stuff like that.

Alex was tangled in the covers, still in his clothes from the night before. His eyes were dry and puffy, and his limbs ached. The rancid aftertaste of alcohol and the chalkiness of morning breath lingered in his mouth.

John was laying next to him, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling steadily. He was laying on his side, curls falling into his face. The rain had slowed to a peaceful drizzle, the sounds of the city in the background.

With a sudden movement, John sat up, hazel eyes bright and alert. “Hey,” he said awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “Um…”

“Um…” Alex echoed. “Thanks for last night. Really.”

“Really, it was no problem. I know what it feels like. To have flashbacks like that. It’s… happened to me too.” John’s eyes were trained on the navy blue comforter in front of him. His muscles were tensed, his face void of any emotion.

Alex decided not to pry, and stayed still for about 30 seconds until a forgotten thought hit him, making his heart plummet into his shoes.

_He has work today, doesn’t he?_

_Oh shit, oh shit._

_His father’s a suit-wearing gerbil, but I don’t want John to get screwed over._

_Well, unless it’s by me._

Pushing these thoughts out of his mind, Alex catapulted himself over John and onto the floor, cursing under his breath. He slid a little bit on his heels, trying to keep his balance. “You have work, don’t you?” He asked, finally breaking the silence.

He heard a slow sigh. “Yeah,” John muttered. “I should go.” Pulling himself from the bed, he glanced at Alex, a heart-melting smile on his face. “Thanks for… everything.”

“You’re thanking me?” Alex said incredulously. “I should be thanking _you_. I’m so sorry for inconveniencing you, and making you late for work, and your dad is probably going to yell at you, and I feel awful…”

“It was worth it, Alex. In South Carolina, y’know, it was just me and my dad, so I had to talk to his friends’ kids, and they were _so_ spoiled and bratty and closed-minded. You’re one of the first people I’ve met that I can actually _stand_ to talk to, so thanks.” He flashed a blinding white smile and walked out the door, humming a small tune under his breath.

As soon as Alex heard the door slam, Lafayette rushed in, a huge smile on their face. They were wearing a rumpled t-shirt and pajama pants, their corkscrew curls bouncing. “So, _mon cher_ , you were quieter than usual,” they said, grinning uncontrollably.

“What?” He said incredulously, looking up at his friend’s sly smile.

A laugh escaped their lips. “I am just saying, Alexander, that when Maria stayed with you that one night, I--”

“Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier,” Alex began, taking a deep breath after rattling off Lafayette’s lengthy name. “Nothing happened.”

Their eyes widened. “From the noises I heard that night, Alexander, _tu es un menteur_.”

“No, well, I mean, things _did_ happen that night. With Maria, I mean. They were pretty fun, to be honest, but I did not do anything with John. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Though, it would’ve been nice if something _did_ happen, but you know, this is off-topic, Laf, don’t you have work?”

Disregarding his question, Lafayette squinted at him, deep in thought. “Okay,” they finally said, their lips curling upwards. “Whatever… how you say, helps you sleep at night.”

Alex groaned, flopping back onto his bed and burying his head into his pillow. “I appreciate that sentiment, Laf, but you know that I don’t sleep.” He smiled widely at the ceiling, shifting to face them.

“Especially when John is around,” they said, a cheeky grin on their face.

He pulled himself up from the bed, feeling for any tangles in his hair. “Aren’t you late for work?” He asked, dancing around the subject of John.

“Night shift,” they explained, yawning. “I promised Washington I would help with paperwork.”

Alex raised an eyebrow, a grin on his face. “I guess I won’t disturb you then,” he said, trying to make his voice as suggestive as possible.

Lafayette’s eyes went wide, a pink tint spreading over their skin. “ _Mon petit lion_ , where did you ever get that idea?”

He smiled innocently. “What idea?”

They sighed and left the room, complaining that Alex had eaten all the croissants.

Alex flopped back onto his bed, listening to drops of rain fall rhythmically onto the roof. A cool blue light flooded the apartment, casting grayish shadows onto the slightly dusty wood floor.

_He has an asshole of a father, great eyes, and a nice giggle._

_What are you going to do to get out of this one, Hamilton?_

\----

John Laurens was not okay.

He watched as his father glided around the room in his wrinkle-free suit, his eyes sharp and unforgiving.

Just two hours earlier, John had been lying next to someone who made his heart skip more than a few beats. And just five minutes ago, he had stumbled into his father’s impeccably clean office, apologizing profusely for being late.

And as John tapped incessantly on his computer, writing _stupid_ economic reports wearing a _stupid_ shirt that fulfilled his father’s _stupid_ requests, he let his mind wander to Alexander Hamilton. He was… indescribable. A person of humor and substance and passion.

Growing up in South Carolina, he had learned to suppress what his father referred to as “an incurable disease”.

Also known as his homosexuality.

It took John a few moments to notice his father looking down at him from the doorway. “Sir?” John asked, trying to muster all the professionalism he could into one word.

His father approached him, his face frosty and unfeeling. He put one hand on his shoulder, his grip a little too tight to be endearing. “I know about your… condition,” he said, teeth gritted.

John kept his face stony as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, waiting until he felt the metallic taste of blood on his tongue.

“I just want you to know that I hope it won’t deter you from your work.”

His father’s grip tightened, his nails digging into his skin.

John continued to type. “Yes sir,” he said flatly, not looking up.

“Good.”

That was the extent of the praise John got from his father now. Still, he couldn’t help feeling the little burst of joy that bloomed in his chest at the approval.

His father patted him on the back, striding out of the room with his head held high.

John’s fingers slowed on the keyboard. He stopped typing, his hands resting on his desk. His eyes were trained on the blinking cursor, unmoving.

_His father wasn’t like the ones in the movies, no._

_He never came home drunk, never beat his son out of fits of rage._

_He knew exactly what he was doing. His eyes were sober and clear, filled with nothing but sheer repulsion._

_For the first 15 years of his life, John was happy. A bright-eyed kid with a steady future ahead of him. He idolized his father, really. Always wished to be just like him._

_So of course, he put his confidence in Henry Laurens, told him two words that destroyed everything._

_“I’m gay.”_

_John watched as his father’s face flooded with realization, dismay, and finally, abhorrence._

_The second time was the worst, if John was going to be honest. The first time his father hit him, he was numb with shock. Maybe it was a one-time thing. Maybe it was just… an exception. Maybe it was an abnormality._

_The second time showed certainty. There was no shock, just sheer pain and betrayal and eventually acceptance. His father had looked at him with sheer disgust, lip curled and eyes flat._

_It didn’t take John to realize that there was something wrong with him. He was a monstrosity, a_ freak _._

_His father was a good man, trying to fix him._

_How selfless was Henry Laurens? He took his disgrace of a son and made him into something_ better _. Something with purpose._

_It didn’t take long for John to realize that he deserved every blow. Every cut, every scar, every bruise._

_It didn’t take long for John to realize that he was the lowest of the low, that he didn’t deserve his father’s generosity, that he was_ worthless _._

_It didn’t take long._


	6. Chapter 6

It was Alex’s day off, and while Lafayette was off doing… things with Washington, he ventured over to Herc’s shop, trying to get his mind off of a certain freckled man.

He pulled himself out of his taxi, bursting into the small shop. The door slammed against the wall, making the shop bell rattle uncontrollably.

“Fucking shit, Hamilton!” Herc shouted. He was holding two sewing pins between his lips, cradling a swath of light gray fabric. “I almost deepthroated these needles, man.”

Winking, Alex leaned against the counter, his chin in the palm of his hand. “It’s good practice, my friend.”

He slipped behind the counter, being as careful as he could not to trip over the bins of fabric lying around.

“Hercules Mulligan needs no introduction,” he announced, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “And neither do I, but what I do need is something to do, so can you help me out?”

Pinning a corner of the fabric into place, Herc looked up at him, lips pursed. “Actually,” he mused, stroking his chin. “Can you help with the customers? I’m working on finishing a suit for some rich CEO dude. Don’t wanna mess up.”

He adjusted his beanie and went to work, folding and tucking and cursing under his breath. Alex settled in on a chair as someone approached him.

“Alex!” A familiar voice said.

He glanced up, and he looked into the face of Elizabeth Schuyler. “Hey!” He replied, getting up from his chair. His eyes subconsciously raked over her-- her petite shoulders, her slight figure, her delicate features, and for a second, John Laurens slipped his mind.

She smiled, and Alex couldn’t help noticing the way her dark eyes lit up as she grinned. “How’re you doing?”

“Good!” He said, voice brightening. “I’m just helping Hercules out with the shop.” He winced internally at the awkward silence, trying to find something to say. “So… you need anything?”

“Yeah,” she answered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “There was a suit for my dad that he wanted by today? I’m here to pick it up.”

Hercules, surprisingly quiet, walked up behind him, holding a plastic garment bag. “For your father,” he said, studying the tag on it. “It’s prepaid, right?”

Nodding, Eliza took the bag, looping a slender finger through the clothes hanger at the top.

Struggling to push several sexual thoughts out of his head, Alex forced his eyes to the floor, studying the streaks of light brown in the hardwood floors. When the shop bell rang and the door opened, letting in the noise of the city, he almost fell into a bin filled with glitter.

Instead, he caught himself with his hand, which consequently landed in the container filled with bright silver sparkles. As soon as he pulled himself up, dropping glitter along the way, he instinctively ran a hand through his hair.

“Herc, why do you have a bin filled with Satan’s sperm?” He asked, trying to catch a glance at his hair in the dull counter.

He heard Eliza’s high, melodic laugh as she carefully lifted the bag over the counter.

“It’s not funny,” he whined, attempting to pick glitter out from between strands of hair.

“It’s pretty funny,” Herc chimed it. “Do you hate glitter just because of that one time you--”

Brushing glitter off his hand, Alex shushed him, not wanting Eliza to hear about that time Lafayette had brought an industrial-sized container of glitter into the apartment. Alex had accidentally eaten some, then had called 911 after he saw sparkles where they were  _ not _ supposed to be.

“So, our dear Lafayette brought an  _ enormous _ thing of glitter to the--” Hercules began, but someone strode up to the counter, chin raised high.

“Can you move out of the way?” He asked in a familiar, pretentious tone. “I have other things to attend to.” He glanced at Alex’s glitter-covered hair, wrinkling his nose. “Have we met before?”

Alex smiled with the most fakeness he could gather. “Sadly,” he said politely, resisting the urge to climb over the counter and throttle Henry Laurens. “How can I help you?”

His eyes slid behind the pompous man standing in front of him, and for the first time, noticed John standing meekly behind his father.

John smiled in greeting, his eyes brightening. As soon as his father glanced back, his face fell, becoming emotionless once more.

“There was a suit that I ordered,” Henry Laurens said, lip curling, as Eliza left the store.

Alex raised an eyebrow. “What about it?”

“I’m here to pick it up.”

Herc pulled Alex behind him. “I’m so sorry, sir, um, he has a few issues to work out,” he said apologetically.

Laurens’s expression stayed stone cold. “More than a few, I can see,” he muttered. “Is the suit done yet?”

“About that sir, we’ve been extremely busy, and the suit still has a few things to work out,” Herc stammered. Alex watched incredulously as Hercules Mulligan, the loud, outspoken man with a linebacker’s build, stuttered around Laurens’s cold stare. “It’s going to take a couple more hours. Very sorry.”

Laurens rolled his eyes, letting out an annoyed sigh. “Jack, wait here until the suit’s done,” he snapped. “Call me once it is.”

“Jack?” Alex said, trying very hard not to choke on laughter.

Laurens glanced back at him, eyes full of contempt, and strode out of the room, almost breaking the shop bell.

John looked, almost nervously, at the door while his father strode down the street, pushing past a crowd of people and talking irately on his phone “Do you have anywhere I can sit?” He asked softly, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

Herc squinted at him, eyebrows furrowing. “You don’t have to wait here. I can call you once it’s done,” he said. “Your dad’s a fucking  _ dick _ .” His volume increased, and by the end, he was almost shouting, though Henry Laurens had disappeared into the city a long time ago.

John laughed a little. “Yeah… I know.” HIs eyes flickered down to the ground, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. “He has a little bit of a superiority complex, I guess. Doesn’t like, uh, associating with anyone who’s not business casual 24/7.”

“Hey! I run a business, this is casual.” Herc ran his hands over his wrinkled King’s College t-shirt and his stained, faded jeans.

Shrugging, John leaned against the counter, putting his chin on the top of his hands. “Is there a chair, or…?”

Alex, who had been silent for an extraordinarily long time, mirrored John’s movement, resting his chin on his hands. “You don’t have to wait here,” he said, trying to count the freckles dotting John’s face.

“Yeah, of course, I, you know, um,” John started to say. He paused for a moment. “Are you okay, Alex?”

Alex, who was still preoccupied in counting John’s freckles, jumped, almost slamming his chin on the countertop. “Always.” He grinned, patting his chest. “Just call me Superman. But dude, you don’t have to wait here, you know. I’m serious. Just have Herc give you his number and then have him text you when it’s done.”

“I don’t really have anything to do, anyway,” John mumbled, pushing himself off the counter. “I’ll stay.”

Herc, seeming resigned, walked to his table to go work on the suit, muttering to himself as he started to sew. Meanwhile, Alex sighed overdramatically, gesturing widely with his arms. “You’ve gotta have something to do, John,” he whined as John shook his head.

“Do you seriously just do whatever he says?” Alex continued, eyes widening as he picked a piece of glitter out of his eyebrow. “Let’s go somewhere. Anywhere. Did you never go through a rebellious phase as a teenager?”

Herc snorted as he threaded a needle with a dark gray thread. “Hamilton’s never moved on from it,” he called. “Take my number now. He’s not gonna let you stay.”

John grinned, laughing a little, as he handed over his phone to Herc, who put in his phone number while chewing on a sewing pin.

_ His fucking laugh. Fucking shit. If his laugh were a person, I would not be opposed to having sex with them. I am also not opposed to having sex with John. _

_ Interesting concept. _

* * *

 

John Laurens was so, so gay.

So gay.

If he’d had any doubts of it before, he was totally sure now.

Thanks to Alexander Hamilton.

The twinge in his chest when he saw Alex talking with an admittedly pretty girl, talking and laughing. The small flutter in his stomach when he looked his way.

The awkward boners (which hadn’t happened yet, but were probably the next step).

John watched as Alex grinned, light bouncing off the glitter in his hair. “Do you have anywhere you want to go?”

Tearing apart his mind for a place,  _ any _ place, to blurt out, John’s hazel eyes flickered to the plethora of framed pictures behind the counter. “Uh… I’ve never been to the Empire State Building,” he said, and Alex lit up, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Great! Let’s go,” he said, grabbing John’s hand and leading him out of the store. “We’ll have to take the subway to get there.” He pulled him down the block as people swerved out of their way to avoid them.

“Wait a minute,” John said, half-panting, as he tried to regain feeling in his feet. “I gotta text someone. He pulled out his phone, sending a text to Hercules Mulligan.

_ Feel free to take your time on the suit. _

John smiled, and for the first time in forever, forgot about Henry Laurens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow it's kind of late, sorry


	7. Chapter 7

_ Is this a date? _

_ Basically. I mean, come on. Well, as close to a date as I (a bisexual male) can get with a straight guy. The Empire State Building too? That shit’s pretty romantic. _

_ The fuck, Hamilton? The dude’s probably straighter than Thomas Jefferson. _

_ But then again, there  _ was _ that time with Jefferson and James Madison, so that  _ basically _ means that John is into guys and we can get married and grow old together in a nice apartment with approximately 15 dogs. _

All of these thoughts were flying through his head as he struggled to swipe his MetroCard, finally managing to stumble through the barrier.

“Do you know which train we have to take?” Alex asked, staring intently at the subway map, scratching at the stubble on his chin.

He heard a small laugh from behind him. “Weren’t you the one that said we had to take the subway to get there?” John asked, grinning and pointing to a colored streak on the board. “We have to--”

“Shh, John, I know how to do this,” Alex said, holding up his index finger.

Alex’s deciphering of the subway map almost ended with a fistfight between him and a group of Burmese tourists. Apparently “shitt” in Burmese means “eight”.

If only Alex had known that.

“No, you’re a piece of  _ shitt _ ,” he screamed down the hallway, his fists balled and ready to hit someone. The tourists were long gone, frightened and probably traumatized.

“Alex, chill out,” John murmured, trying to hold back a snicker. “We have to take this train.” He pointed to a blue line twisting and turning around a bunch of other lines.

Alex, who had finally stopped muttering “fucking  _ shitt _ ” under his breath, glanced at the subway map, a pout on his face. “My dear Laurens, I would try to understand your logic, except for the fact that that line is as straight as I am,” he said, trying his hand at a seductive smile.

John’s eyes flickered to the ground.

_ Oh my god, if this little fucker is homophobic, I swear I’m going to cry and spend the rest of my days watching The Notebook and-- _

“Cool,” he finally said. “Oh hey, I think that’s the train we have to take.” As if on cue, a puff of warm air rushed through the tunnel. The wheels squealed to a stop, and a few people walked off, talking on their phones or listening to music.

The subway car was mostly filled, save one seat next to a very pasty guy eating pretzels incredibly loudly. John grinned, gesturing to the seat with a sweeping motion. “Good ol’ Southern hospitality,” he said in a twangy accent, tipping an imaginary hat towards Alex.

“So kind of you,” he replied, taking the seat, leaning as far away from the pretzel-eating person sitting next to him. John held onto the silver pole next to him, feet planted firmly on the ground.

“I feel like I’m at a strip club,” Alex joked, leaning on the rail. “Should I throw some money or something?” He ignored the absolutely disgusted look of the elderly woman sitting two seats away.

John, laughing, swung around the pole, trying his hardest to smile seductively. He ran a hand through his dark curls, posing in an overexaggerated Playboy fashion.

_ Don’t get a boner, Hamilton. Come on. Think. Washing machines. Cabinets. That one time Lafayette got drunk and did the do with Washington in your bed (with you still in it). _

_ Thomas Jefferson. _

_ Okay, there you go. You can do this. John’s hot. He’s also probably straight. Keep it in your pants. _

“Work it,” Alex said between short laughs. The subway screeched to a stop, throwing John off balance. “Are we supposed to get off here?” He asked as John regained his balance.

“One more stop,” John said, eyes flicking up to the subway map. “Now you can regale me with tales of your amazing coworker Thomas Jefferson.”

“You have much to learn, John,” Alex said, a frown on his face. “Thomas Jefferson is not my coworker. He is a sack of shit that happens to exist near me at some times but is usually too busy fucking the water cooler in Meeting Room B.”

“Is there a story behind that?” John asked, already on the verge of laughing.

“You bet there is, but I think we’re here,” Alex said, swaying as the subway stopped.

John gasped, hand over his mouth. “You’re learning fast,” he said.

Pouting, Alex got up and walked out of the subway car. “I do not need your sass,” he said, snapping his fingers once for emphasis.

They made their way out of the subway station, the sounds of car horns and construction all around them. After almost getting hit by a taxi, they started to walk a few blocks to the infamous Empire State Building, engaging in (kind of) witty banter and earning stares of concerned passerby, especially after Alex screamed, “you know what’s bigger than the Empire State Building? My PENIS” at full volume.

The circumstances surrounding the remark were still unclear to him.

Soon enough, they were standing in front of the Empire State Building (which was admittedly bigger than Alex’s penis).

They had only taken a few steps inside when someone said, “This is America. Learn the language, won’t you?”

Alex immediately spun on his heel, looking for the speaker. He wasn’t hard to find, to be honest. Sweat-stained t-shirt. Very, very red cheeks. Bad facial hair. Probably hiding a gun in his backpack.

John had heard as well, and was currently bristling, lips pressed into a thin line. Without looking back at him, Alex strode towards the man, chin pointed upwards to look taller. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” He asked, voice controlled and strained.

“I  _ said _ , this is America. Learn the language,” the man replied, spittle flying as he spoke. John had followed Alex, and almost ducked to avoid the drops of saliva soaring through the air.

Alex, unimpressed, raised an eyebrow. “Look, you little mayonnaise fucker, the whole  _ point _ of America is that there’s no language. Take your eggy ass back to your mom’s basement, will you?”

“Oh look, is this your boyfriend? First there are idiots that can’t bother to learn how to speak English, and now there are  _ fags _ . What has this country come to?” The man scowled, nose upturned in disgust. “Next you’ll tell me that there are nig--”

In one fluid motion, John pushed past Alex and delivered a very satisfying uppercut as Alex’s jaw dropped open. He heard a grunt as the man stumbled backwards, catching himself on one foot.

“You fucking pansy,” he growled, face even redder than it was before. He lunged for John, as his fist connected with John’s (beautiful) face.

It didn’t take long for the security guards stationed in the building to intervene, pulling them apart and then detaining them for about an hour.

Still, Alex had a bloodied lip, and John had a bruise across his cheek and a cut across his forehead.

They both left with a ban from the Empire State Building.

* * *

 

“You know, I’m sorry you never got to see the top of the Empire State,” Alex said, sitting down on the park bench. The sunlight filtered through the trees, casting intricate shadows on the ground.

He held his ice cream up, trying not to let a drop fall onto the ground.

John snorted, taking a bite of his chocolate cone. “If there are bastards like that on the ground floor, I don’t want to see the top,” he said, sitting next to Alex and massaging the bruise on his face.

Alex got up in shock, eyes widening with what can only be described as life-changing realization “You like  _ chocolate _ ice cream?” He asked incredulously, mouth agape.

“You’re one of  _ those _ people,” John replied, hazel eyes narrowing and taking a deliberately large mouthful of ice cream.

“Born and proud,” Alex shouted to the small park, jumping onto the bench and raising his ice cream as high as possible. He then tried to do a Lion King-esque pose, but stopped when he almost fell off the bench.

“Alex, must I say, that you are rocking that Band-Aid,” John said, wiping at a drop of chocolate ice cream at the corner of his mouth. Alex grinned from behind his melting ice cream cone, showing off his Hello kitty Band-Aid.

“It’s a talent,” he declared. “Let’s toast.” He held up his ice cream to John, who, in turn, tapped the ice cream cone with his.

_ Oh no, Hamilton, push the sexual thoughts out of your head. Not now. Later. You can think about this when John is at least 300 feet away from you. _

John grinned, eyes wandering to the Empire State Building, as he lifted his ice cream cone. “Raise a glass to freedom,” he said, a silly smile on his face.

Alex relaxed against the park bench, eyes closing slightly.

This he could get used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're wondering, the thing about the number "eight" in Burmese is true (it looks like this: ရှစ်)


	8. Chapter 8

There was a disproportionate amount of bread in the pantry. French bread, to be specific. “Marie-Joseph,” he whined, attempting to paw past the small mountain of baguettes lying in the way of his beloved potato chips.

Lafayette poked their head into the doorway. “You called?” They asked, a sheepish smile on their face.

“Did Adrienne send these?” Alex asked, carefully pulling the chips out of the cabinet, trying not to break any.

“ _Oui_ ,” they replied, walking casually into the room at the mention of their French friend. “But that is currently irrelevant. Tell me, _mon cher_ , about your outing with John.”

Alex, who was struggling to open the chips, stopped cold for a moment. “It was Hercules, wasn’t it?” He groaned, finally managing to tear the bag open.

Laf sat down and turned the chair around to face Alex, a small smirk on their face. “ _Non_ ,” they said, crossing their legs. “Eliza.”

He stopped mid-chew. “Eliza?” He said, not noticing as a few crumbs fell on the floor. “Why would she care about that?” Every thought of John disappeared at the mention of the kindhearted, gentle Elizabeth Schuyler.

“She does not care about _that_ , Alexander,” Laf lamented, leaning back dramatically in their chair. They pointed at him with a slender finger, wrist arched perfectly. “She cares about you.”

Alex almost choked on a potato chip as he tried to come up with a somewhat humorous response. “Of course she cares about me,” he spluttered. “I’m gorgeous.” He flipped his hair and flashed what he considered to be a red carpet smile.

They let out an exasperated sigh, staring up at the ceiling, hands outstretched. “I am not going to say anything else. You are dense, how you say, as _fuck_.”

Deciding to bypass the fact that Lafayette had just cursed, Alex shot straight up, a strange look on his face. “What do you mean, Laf?” He asked, interest piqued.

They sighed again, burying their head in their hands. “How deeply are you in love with John?” They replied, tapping a foot on the kitchen floor.

“W- what?” Alex said, putting his hands up while still chewing on a chip. “Can you read me my Miranda rights before interrogation, please?”

Lafayette grinned. “Your silly American rules do not apply to the French,” they said, their smile widening. “I am curious, Alexander.”

“And I,” Alex said, putting a chip in his mouth with a wide sweeping gesture. “Am curious as to why you care so much.”

Exhaling quietly, Lafayette relaxed against the chair, blowing a stray curl away from their face. “Like I said,” they murmured, placing their hands behind their neck. “Dense as _fuck_.”

* * *

 

John was sitting on his swivel chair, alternating between spouting out bullshit on his quarterly report and thinking about none other than Alexander Hamilton. He had done his best to convince his father that he was straight.

There was Martha Manning, who he’d dated in high school for 3 years while pining over an insanely attractive basketball player.

Was that it?

There were throwaway relationships, when he could go to his father and tell him that he just went on a “date with a really nice girl”, waiting in silence for his father’s small nod of approval.

God, John was so stupid.

Why couldn’t he just accept himself? Why couldn’t he just go up to someone and say “oh hey, I’m a raging homosexual and I _love_ it”? Why did he have to feel repulsed every single time he looked in the mirror?

The answer was fairly simple.

Henry fucking Laurens.

John choked out a strangled sob. Actually, it wasn’t really a sob. More like a sound of frustration and hatred and disappointment that left an ache in his throat. Tears clawed at his eyes, making the computer screen in front of him go blurry, soon becoming just a glowing square that seemed miles away.

He let out a small sigh, trying to get the tightness in his chest to release. “Calm down,” he whispered to himself, thanking every higher power that his father had been kind enough to give him an office instead of a cramped cubicle. “So many people have it worse than you. Just. Calm. Down.”

He took a shuddering breath, putting his fingers back on his keyboard.

_Just forget about Alex. He’s probably straight. I mean, he probably has a girlfriend. Look at that person he was talking to in Herc’s shop._

He sighed. Every word that she said had held Alex rapt, every laugh leaving him breathless.

_He doesn’t want you. Your father doesn’t want you. How fucking useless are you?_

John winced, his words sounding harsh even in his head, but he knew he was right. Alex was a full-on galaxy, and John was just a star glowed faintly in the distance.

_Forget about him. You’re not worth it._

He finally let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and began to type.

An hour and a half later, he hadn’t looked up from his screen once. His fingers had started to ache, and there was a crick in his neck from leaning over his laptop for so long. Still, he didn’t stop, obsessing over every word choice and making sure to fix every grammar mistake.

He almost fell off his chair when his father entered, face as stern as always. “Jack.”

“Sir?” John kept typing, trying to ignore his father’s presence and keep weighing stock values.

“You’re working hard, I see,” he said finally, putting a hand on his shoulder. John couldn’t help but flinch at the contact. Still, the fact that his father wasn’t disgusted by him was an improvement, and it made a small smile break out on his face for just a second.

“Yes sir,” he said, immediately sitting up as straight as possible, still clicking away at the computer. “Of course.”

“Jack,” his father sighed, pulling up a chair and sitting next to his eldest son. “I know that I can be hard on you sometimes. I want you to know that I am just trying to help you with your… condition.”

John tensed up, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He glanced down at his keyboard. His eyes had started to burn and water a little bit.

_Condition._

_I am gay. Not fucking diseased._

That’s what he wanted to say, anyway. “Thank you,” he said softly, his fingers finally slowing on the keyboard. “Sir.”

“Go home, John,” his father said, a grim smile on his face. “You’ve been working too hard lately.”

John immediately shot up from his chair and stumbled out of his office, feeling strangely elated as he rode the elevator downstairs.

_What the fuck was that?_

He put his hands in his pockets, feeling for his phone, which had just vibrated. Alex, asking if he wanted to go out for drinks in a couple hours. John’s heart involuntarily leaped at the thought of seeing him.

 _Stop._ He took a breath, trying to think of a reply.

John came up with quite a few responses.

“Nah.”

“R U GAY”

“No, seriously, like are you into dudes because if you are then I can give Henry Laurens the finger and we can live happily ever after and maybe we could go to the Empire State Building on a date (oh wait lmao)”

“u wanna give me a bj ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)”

“You’re hot and I’m not so if it were biologically possible we could make the most average looking babies on earth”

He eventually settled on saying that he had a lot of work to do (a lie) and that he might stop by for a drink or two (he was still debating it). Alex answered with an enthusiastic smiley face, a few exclamation points, and the bar’s address.

* * *

 

“Give me my phone back!” Alex whined, standing on his tip-toes as Hercules held it up, tapping out a message.

Lafayette was lounging on the couch, their long legs hanging over its arms, laughing as Alex tried to jump onto Herc’s shoulders, sliding unsuccessfully down his back before letting go and falling flat on the floor. “Alexander, _mon ami_ , are you alright?” They asked, concerned, as Alex laid, pouting, on the carpet.

“He said yes,” Herc said, finally lowering Alex’s phone.

He jumped up from where he had just been, eyes wild with excitement. “Seriously?” He said, trying his hardest not to get his hopes up.

“Alexander is in _looooove_ ,” Lafayette called from the couch.

He swiped his phone away from Herc. “Shut up, you elongated weedle,” he said, scrolling through his texts.

“Weedle?” Laf asked curiously, glancing over.

They all wound up being 20 minutes late to the bar after Alex decided to give Lafayette an incredibly lengthy lecture on Pokémon, only leaving after a couple urgent texts from Peggy.

Once they got there, John was sitting at the bar, downing a beer, with the Schuylers and Maria.

For John, one drink turned into two, and he was working on his third pint of Sam Adams. After he’d drained the glass, he decided against a fourth, already feeling a little tipsy.

For Alex, he was the designated sober friend, which was both a good idea and a bad one. On the bright side, he wouldn’t get into any drunken fistfights. On the other hand, he would probably end up getting them all arrested or “accidentally” getting drunk and consequently get into a drunken fistfight.

Eliza, ever so responsible and caring for her liver, went for a club soda with lime, watching with an amused grin as Laf and Peggy raced to see who had the higher alcohol tolerance.

About an hour later, Alex and Eliza sat at the bar, the only ones left that were remotely sober. John was off probably fighting someone, and/or watching Lafayette fight someone.

“So…” Eliza said, looking down at her hands. “Do you have a thing for John?”

“W- what?” He asked, surprised at her directness. “I- I guess… I’m pretty sure he’s straight though. There is someone else…  so I’m not sure.” His heart thundered in his chest, his head swimming.

Eliza raised an eyebrow curiously, her face stoic and betraying nothing. “Really?” She asked. “Who is it?”

Alex looked up at the ceiling.

This was who he was supposed to fall in love with. She was kindhearted, gentle, lighthearted, graceful. She was perfect. John was an unexpected factor thrown into the equation because of a thunderstorm, spite, and the coffeehouse on the corner of Eighth and Mercer Street.

“It’s you,” he said finally, a small grin breaking out on his face.

“Called it,” Angelica shouted from behind them. A smatter of clapping broke out from Alex’s group of friends. Herc, Laf, Peggy, Maria…

John.

Alex outstretched a hand, and Eliza took it, a giggle escaping her lips.

The smile on her face was so bright that Alex pretended not to see the look of utter heartbreak on John’s.

* * *

 

It took all he had to force a smile, to look happy for them.

But still, as he was walking home in the bitter fall weather, he couldn’t help feeling resentment, contempt, hatred.

“I told you so,” he muttered to himself, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Fucking told you so.”

It was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((don't worry, it's not over))  
> gOD FUCKING DAMN IT THE FUCKING LENNY FACE LOOKS SO WEIRD IN THIS FONT  
> also 100 kudos wow thanks you guys <3


	9. Chapter 9

Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette was sure of one thing, and one thing only.

John Laurens was lost in a sea of endless pining.

Every day, he would come into the coffee shop on the corner of Eighth and Mercer Street, ask for a hot chocolate, and sit alone at the round table. He took small sips of the drink, trying to make it last, until he glanced at his phone and strode briskly away, throwing his cup into the garbage and not looking back.

It’d been weeks now, that Lafayette had seen Laurens come in, nose sometimes red from cold, hands shoved in his pockets, asking for a small hot chocolate. Nothing less, nothing more.

“One medium hot chocolate, please.”

Here they went again. There was snow falling in small flurries outside, and fine white flakes covered John’s dark curls.

Lafayette put on their most customer-friendly smile, punching in the order. This was already routine.

“$2.32,  _ mon ami _ ,” they said, holding out a hand for the money.

He smiled back weakly, placing three perfect, unwrinkled dollar bills in their hand. “Thanks, Laf,” he said quietly, not daring to meet their eyes.

This was routine.

They slid the steaming white cup over the counter to John as they tore off the short receipt and counted out change. John, as usual, dropped the coins in the clear glass tip jar, taking the cup into his hands and meandering to his beloved table.

Alexander and John were still good friends. He came over to their apartment at least three times a week to listen to Broadway cast albums or to make fun of Thomas Jefferson. And so, it was obvious that John had fallen hard for Alexander Hamilton.

It wasn’t just the daily hot chocolates, either. It was the way John had “a ton of work to do” when Eliza and Alexander were in one room together, the way he almost lingered whenever Alexander’s hands brushed against his. Everything, literally everything, he did spoke volumes, but Alexander, totally convinced that John was straight as his father, could  _ not _ have been more dense.

And it wasn’t like Eliza and Alexander weren’t the perfect couple. One was cool, level-headed, responsible. The other was passionate, fiery, impulsive. They worked together, each having something the other didn’t.

Lafayette pushed themself off the counter, sliding past Burr to get to the cappuccino machine, a cup in hand.

It was time to break routine.

* * *

 

The hot chocolate was good. Slightly bitter. Warm. The strong scent of java drifted lazily past John Laurens as he took another sip of the drink. He was careful not to let it burn his tongue, letting the cold air rushing from the constantly opening and closing door cool it.

Maybe he just liked the hot chocolate because it reminded him of Alex. When he thought he had a chance.

_ You’re such a fucking drama queen, you know that? _

_ Grow up. _

John let out a quiet, harsh laugh into his cup, the steam from the drink burning his face.

It took him a few seconds to notice that Lafayette had sat down across from him, sipping a cappuccino and studying him with knowing eyes.

“Hey,” he said from behind his cup.

They stayed quiet for a bit, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed. John basked in the silence, letting his mind drift aimlessly in the heavy smell of coffee and the furious heat of the radiator.

“How are you, John?” Laf finally asked, taking a long sip of their drink. A bit of the foam got caught on their upper lip, and they wiped it off with one fluid motion.

“I’m okay,” he said, but he knew that he had never been the best liar, and it was clear from their face that Lafayette knew that too.

They sighed, putting their cup down. “Alexander, huh?” They asked, a sad smile on their face.  
John knew, from the tone, exactly what they were talking about. His hot chocolate was burning hot against his palms, but he didn’t really notice. “Yeah,” he mumbled, watching small white snowflakes fall soundlessly onto the sidewalk. “But they seem so happy together, so I’ll deal.”

“You really love him that much,” they said back. It wasn’t a question anymore. To be honest, it never really was. John’s feelings for Alex ran so much deeper than a mere infatuation. He stayed with Alex, as a friend, even though it tortured him to do so.

Even though it was clear that Lafayette didn’t need a response, he nodded.

They took a deep breath, mind racing for something to say. “If you ever need someone to talk to,  _ mon cher _ ,  _ je serai toujours ici. _ ”

My dear, I will always be here.

The look on Lafayette’s face said that they had used those words intentionally.

John’s French skills were more than lacking, but he  _ did _ know this one phrase. Alex had asked his opinion on it when he was writing something for Eliza. John had nodded blindly, putting his best effort at an encouraging smile on his face.

“Thanks,” he said finally, taking another sip of his hot chocolate. “Really.”

* * *

 

Every other night or so, Lafayette would stay up until ungodly hours talking on the phone with somebody, switching between angry, passionate French and calm, collected English.

Alex once asked, while inhaling his fourth black coffee of that day, who it was. Lafayette, who was busy buttering toast, grinned.

“John,” they replied simply as they sunk their teeth into the toasted bread.

_ The one time they offer a straight answer is the time I don’t want one. A not straight answer. Meaning a queer answer. Because John is the answer. John liking guys would be pretty nice. Yep. _

_ You fucking dipshit. Did you forget Eliza? Too much coffee? Probably. You’ve probably broken the table already. _

_ You really aren’t a morning person, are you, Hamilton? _

“Alexander?” Lafayette had said, having already finished their toast.

“Oh… yeah,” he said, blinking blearily and swiping an orange from the fridge. “Gotta go to work. Are Herc and John still coming over tonight?”

Laf’s eyes flickered down to their phone, skimming for any new messages. “ _ Oui, je le pense _ ,” they answered, reaching for the loaf of bread across from them.

Alex, cursing under his breath as he tried to peel the orange, almost slammed into the door as he tripped over a pair of shoes lying by the doorway. “Bye!” He called, disappearing down the hallway.

Lafayette and John. Staying up until three in the morning. Talking. Laughing.

Something shifted inside of him, pushing his heart towards his stomach for a split second. John. Lafayette.

Finally managing to peel the orange Alex pushed the feeling away. Lafayette had Washington, and they were the most faithful person in a relationship, romantic or otherwise. And John was… John.

“A friend,” Alex said loudly, voice echoing around the elevator. The well-dressed man standing stiffly next to him shot him a look from under dark, bushy eyebrows, and a mother with the “can I speak to your manager” haircut clutched her 6 year-old daughter a little closer to her.

“Oh shit, not that kind of friend!” He exclaimed, hand clapping over his mouth.

The lady’s daughter looked at him with wide, fascinated eyes and a barrage of swear words left Alex’s mouth. Thankfully, the elevators opened smoothly, letting Alex sprint out into the streets of the city.

* * *

 

It’d been about a week since John had stopped ringing the doorbell. He burst into the apartment, bearing two bags full of McNuggets and a six-pack of beer. “I have gifts!” He announced leaving his shoes neatly at the doorway.

“Do you?” Herc thundered, taking the greasy paper bags from him. He studied the contents. “He has gifts!” He proclaimed as John ambled casually into the living room, setting the alcohol onto the table.

Lafayette grinned almost wolfishly at the chicken nuggets, claiming one of the bags and all of the packets of ketchup as “the property of France”.

“Isn’t ketchup banned in France?” Alex asked curiously, propping himself up on his elbows on the coffee table.

They snorted. “Why do you think I want all of it?” They asked, already struggling with tearing a packet open.

Eventually, all of the delicious sodium-filled nuggets and the beers had disappeared. Herc had left, leaving with a suggestive smirk on his face and his gray beanie tilted a little to the right. Lafayette had wandered to bed, mumbling some nonsense about the state of France’s economy and how it related to his sleep schedule.

“I would say that we should go stargazing, but you know, we’re in New York City,” Alex finally said, lounging lazily on the couch. His voice was surprisingly clear, despite the fact that he had downed an energy drink and three of the six beers.

John’s legs were strewn across Alex’s lap as he glanced out the large, almost floor-to-ceiling window. Bright yellows and reds and greens dotted the inky black sky, and monstrous steel buildings stretched towards the moon. “It’s pretty, though,” he said, captivated by the way vibrant colors glinted off the well polished windows, shimmering and warping with every movement, no matter how small.

Alex shifted, his dark eyes studying the city. “Yeah…” He said, sitting up. He let out an obnoxiously loud burp and they both subsequently dissolved into giggles.

Everything quieted all of a sudden. “It’s weird you know,” John said into the silence, watching as the spots of color danced hundreds of feet below him. “There are, like, a million people down there. Living in their apartments and working and getting wasted and falling in love.” His voice faltered a little bit at the last three words. “And from here you can see it all.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like, you could get lost in all these stories. It’s kind of amazing. And terrifying too,” he continued.

Alex smiled. Nothing like a leering, drunk smile or an airy, caffeine-filled grin. A true, soft smile that brought a sense of security to the whole room. “Don’t worry if you get lost,  _ mon cher, _ ” he said softly, the lights of the city moving incessantly in his dark irises.

“ _ Je serai toujours ici.” _

John’s breath caught in his throat, his heartbeat loud and erratic in his head.

My dear, I will always be here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translations (according to Google):  
> mon ami / my friend  
> oui, je le pense / yes, I think so

**Author's Note:**

> Updating weekly (Sat.)


End file.
